Chapter 3 - The Star on the Tree
Gasp of confusion and startled cries echoed through the ballroom.
"Don't move!" Thomas Dre’s authoritative voice boomed out from the fireplace hearth across the room. "Security, get the auxiliary generators online immediately!"
In the complete darkness, I felt a heavy hand grab my wrist.
It wasn't Matthias. The grip was larger, calloused, and immensely strong.
"Stay down, Mrs. Dre," a low, deep voice rasped right beside my ear.
Before I could react or scream, a sudden wave of commotion erupted around the Christmas tree. I heard the sharp sound of a glass ornament shattering against the hardwood, the heavy thump of a body striking the floor, and a choked, muffled gasp from Fiona.
Three seconds later, the red emergency exit lights hummed to life along the baseboards, casting a dim, crimson glow over the room.
The auxiliary generator kicked in with a deep mechanical thud, and the wall sconces flickered back on.
The crowd gasped in unison.
Fiona Vale was gone.
Her half-empty champagne glass lay shattered on the Persian rug beside the tree. The tall man in the charcoal suit who had been watching from the staircase had also vanished into thin air.
Matthias stood frozen beside me, his hands raised in shock, staring at the empty space where his mistress had been standing seconds ago.
"Fiona?" Matthias called out, his voice cracking with sudden, hysterical panic. "Fiona!"
"Matthias!" Eleanor Dre rushed across the floor, her diamond necklaces catching the dim emergency light. "What is happening? Where are the security guards?"
"Look at the tree," I said softly.
My voice wasn't loud, but in the tense, terrified silence of the room, every person heard it.
Matthias slowly turned his head toward the ten-foot Fraser fir.
Hanging directly beneath the heavy gold star at the very top of the tree was a large, black-and-white photograph framed in dark wood. It hadn't been there five minutes ago.
The photograph showed three people standing on the deck of a private yacht anchored in a misty, northern harbor.
On the left was a younger Matthias.
On the right was Fiona Vale.
And standing between them, his arms draped casually over both of their shoulders, was a man with a distinct scar running down his right jawline.
The room went deathly quiet.
Thomas Dre took three slow steps toward the tree, his face turning an unhealthy, bruised purple as he stared at the photograph.
"Impossible," Thomas whispered, his hands trembling violently. "He died six years ago in the Baltic explosion."
Matthias stumbled backward, his back hitting the wooden trunk of the tree, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror.
"Julian..." Matthias choked out.
Julian Dre.
Matthias’s older brother. The eldest son and rightful heir of Dre Maritime, who had supposedly perished when a cargo vessel engine room exploded off the coast of Finland six years ago—the tragedy that had cleared the path for Matthias to take absolute control of the family dynasty.
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I looked at the photograph, then down at my phone as it vibrated a second time in my palm.
HE'S COMING DOWNSTAIRS.
